


What You've Done

by KyeAbove



Series: The Reinforcement Of Agony AU [76]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Angst, Past Character Death, Period-Typical Racism, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 23:56:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14604567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyeAbove/pseuds/KyeAbove
Summary: Agony:HellWhen The Projectionist leaves the depths, it never ends with his happiness.





	What You've Done

**Author's Note:**

> There’s a minor allusions to period typical racism in this, because some people were jerks back then.

~Unknown~

* * *

 

There was no use thinking of the past, but sometimes The Projectionist did. It was hard to ignore that these ink creatures had been as human as The Projectionist had once been. He was trying his damndest though, even going as far to attack almost everyone in his path. To dissociate.

Yet, there were some others he couldn’t mess with. Wouldn’t mess with.

Sometimes The Prophet yelled at him. Laughed at him. But The Prophet never attacked him.

The Projectionist never hurt the other man in return. With words, yes, because insults kept The Prophet at bay. The Projectionist could never physically hurt him.

The Prophet wasn’t like the rest. At his root, he was still crazy, sickly Sammy Lawrence, who Norman had to walk home more than once because he’d passed out from exhaustion or whatever else. Those days, Norman wasn’t about to wait for Sammy’s brother or son to finish work to walk him home. But rarely was it dire enough to get the other man to a hospital.

Sammy always had to be awake and alert by the time they went walking. Norman already got _looks_ when alone. Norman Polk, tall and imposing, beside a man who barely came up on his chest, got more looks. While very adamant and secure in his masculinity, Sammy Lawrence was often mistaken for female due to his hair being far too long, and his past starvation and illnesses leaving him rather skinny. Despite Sammy’s skin color not being a light white, Norman had feared for his life.

But Sammy had been Norman’s friend. There was no going around that.

The Prophet wasn’t the The Projectionist’s friend, but that’s just the way things had to be.

So, whenever The Prophet antagonized him, The Projectionist either insulted him or ignored him. Better than hurting him physically, The Projectionist thought. It was easier for the both of them.

If The Prophet needed a friend, he had others to fill that role.

The Projectionist saw a lot of people, but aside from The Prophet, another one stood out. Not just because he wore clothing when much of the rest did not. The Projectionist once knew him too. A little more than he knew many of the rest.

“Dad? Where’s my dad? I just want my dad!” That lost soul called into empty halls, his tone a reminder of everyone’s misery.

The Projectionist called that one The Murk Child, after some thinking, because despite him being a young man, he was nothing more now than a little boy screaming for his father. The Projectionist hated that he recognized the young man’s screams and cries. Yet, _that name_ did not fit this new being he’d become, as much as ‘Norman’ did not fit The Projectionist now.

Still, The Projectionist would sometimes sit with The Murk Child. He was much more withdrawn than The Prophet, but more talkative than many of the others in the studio. After some time with The Projectionist, The Murk Child either called himself Murk, or couldn’t remember The Projectionist at all. One of many things that The Prophet and The Murk Child shared was a slipping memory.

The Projectionist would never admit that he might be using The Murk Child as an occasional replacement for The Prophet’s company, because that would be selfish. But The Projectionist knew that even when they’d been human, the young man had only gotten on his radar because of Sammy Lawrence.

Maybe his actions were more noble. Maybe he was just searching for friends. It was hard to make friends when he looked like _this._

After some time, The Projectionist met two Borises. One Boris was missing part of an arm, while the other had a much flatter face, the start of many differences between the two. The Boris with the missing arm was just a hair taller than the other Boris, and when he saw The Projectionist, the Boris with the missing arm tried to loom over the other, in some sort of protective gesture. It was in vain, because the shorter Boris gasped and took off, and before the other Boris took after him, he shot The Projectionist a look, saying,

“Now look what you’ve done.” Almost like he knew everything else The Projectionist was responsible for.

Out of all the things Norman Polk had done as The Projectionist, _every bit of pain he’d caused_ , causing Wally Franks' death had been the hardest to face. That boy, with all his dreams and worries, should have grown up fine. Even if someone had to fub a few things, Wally should have finished growing up, got married to that young man he loved, and died of old age. That was what Norman had imagined for Wally Franks, who he considered to be his son, even with a racial barrier separating them.

It was enough to make him want to smash his projector against a wall, repeatedly, in hopes that one day it might come loose. The Projectionist wasn’t sure what would happen if it did. Would he die, or be free?

The Projectionist placed his hands on the wall, prepared to try this again. What stopped him was a rotting sound, and he turned around to face the music.

The ink puddle in the hallway gathered, flying up in the air, and when it melted away, a man stood. Despite falling short of The Projectionist, he was somehow very imposing.

“Hello, Norman. Death still hasn’t come for you?”

The Projectionist shook slightly. The Ink Demon was a constant threat, and could turn on anyone at barely a moment's notice, but this man was...

“There’s no way of talking any sense into Sammy. Everyone else is a lost cause too. Why don’t you let yourself be taken too?”

“No.” The Projectionist responded with a crackle of his speaker.

The man laughed, his dark eyes showing how dead inside he was at heart.

“What’s keeping you back?”

What was it, really? Unless he could fix himself, there was no going home. Even then, it had to have been years. Would he still be accepted back at this point?

Ah. The man was doing to The Projectionist as The Projectionist did to The Prophet, just more extreme and more cruel. With actual intent for something to happen. The Projectionist couldn’t allow that, so he charged at the man. With a short yelp, the man dissipated, leaving The Projectionist alone.

“Stupid. Crazy. Must be common in them.”

Why did The Projectionist not try harder to be free? Even he wasn’t sure. But that man had no right to ask.

The Projectionist called him The Volatile Man now. Far too recently, yet already a lifetime ago, The Projectionist might have called that man a friend. That was no friend of his now.

**Author's Note:**

> Sammy is Spanish, giving him olive skin over a lighter shade of white even with how sickly and pale he was. That stopped no one who thought it was wrong for a ‘white woman’, as he was often mistaken for, or just a woman in general, and a black man to be seen together in public. 
> 
> If it wasn’t clear, Wally was the Boris that ran away, cause it was The Projectionist that caused Wally's death, as shown in [Saints](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14054991)  
> I considered having a proper reunion for Norman and Wally here, but it’s a couple decades too early for that. Plus, something like that needs its own story.
> 
> Aside from giving The Projectionist some time to shine, this story exists to do a bit of worldbuilding. I’ve been working on this series for quite a few months, and I’ve now only properly introduced another one of the villains, The Volatile Man, which is a mistake on my part. He's here to stay.


End file.
